Confidentiality
by White Aster
Summary: The problem with being a medic on the Ark is that just about every patient is your friend. It's even worse when your lover is the head of Spec Ops. Ratchet finds Jazz after a mission gone wrong. Jazz was really hoping that he wouldn't.


**Warnings:** Warnings for oblique mention of nonspecific torture/rape and recovery from same. It's all off-screen, but there.

**Challenge/Prompt:** Medic! challenge on the tf_rare_pairing comm on LJ.

**Notes:** This is not meant to illustrate the usual reactions (either human OR Cybertronian) to trauma or trauma recovery. Jazz is a special snowflake, and Ratchet is not a psychologist.

* * *

Ratchet, for once, hadn't been on duty. That had no doubt been the plan.

He'd had no real reason to be in that part of the ship, passing through that particular corridor, either. The desire to talk to Wheeljack, who had been working on rewiring the security perimeter in that section, had been a spur-of-the-moment thing.

So, when he passed the auxiliary medbay and noticed the trail of fresh energon drips (not obvious, except if one was hyperaware of internal fluids as a rule), it was entirely random. Much later, he'd be amused by how much sheer chance had ruined Jazz's obvious plan to not be seen.

Instead, the medbay doors opened at his code and he adjusted his optics to the dim power-save lighting that came up, outlining a figure over by the supply cabinets. He relaxed when he saw that it was not some 'Con agent that had snuck in, but rather a much more Autobot brand of infiltrator. "What're you doing in here?"

Jazz didn't start. He just went still, the rustle and clank of whatever he was doing in the open supply cabinet going silent.

He also didn't turn around.

Jazz had been off on a mission, was all that Ratchet had known. A mission of unknown duration that had stretched to over a week and had started to make Ratchet nervous. "Did you just get back?" Ratchet asked, reaching for the light switch panel to up the lights to full power. "And what are you doing in here in the dark?"

"Don't, Ratchet."

It wasn't clear whether Jazz meant the lights or the questions, but Ratchet was distracted enough by the flatness of Jazz's voice to abort his reach anyway.

And Jazz still hadn't turned around. Not even his helm when he'd spoken.

Something was wrong. Ratchet's triage subroutines kicked on like a frontliner's battle protocols, alarmed by the uncharacteristic behavior if nothing else. "Jazz. Are you injured?" He took a step in, then stopped when Jazz said, in that same flat voice, "I've requested medical confidentiality Level 5, with primary care physician Hoist, under Article 12, Section 934, subsection 23. Hoist is on his way."

Ratchet stared at the back of Jazz's helm. (There were deep scratches scored through the dermal layer that hadn't been there before, he couldn't help but notice.) Invoking that level of confidentiality was the equivalent of the humans' "name, rank, serial number." It was meant to be used when even the knowledge of injuries could be a breach of security, or...under other circumstances.

There were only two ways to deal with such a request, as a CMO. One was to accept, ensure that the patient was stable until the PCP arrived, and then leave so as not to gather any confidential information about the patient's status. The other was to override it with appeals to the patient's immediate safety or doubts about the patient's state of mind.

The patient's state of mind was odd but not incapably so. The patient's current safety looked...well, all he knew was that Jazz was bleeding but not terminally, especially since Hoist was less than two minutes away, at the longest (he pinged Hoist and received a confirmation that yes, ETA less than a minute.)

_Well...frag. This is awkward._

"All...right." The energon on the floor, Ratchet noticed, was the dull oily purple-blue of energon mixed with coolant and hydraulic fluid. You didn't get that ugly mix from superficial wounds. It had pattered to the floor in steady drips, from the hall over to where Jazz stood.

Ratchet had never felt so conflicted in his entire life. But a patient was a patient. Even if it was Jazz.

Jazz, who was still too quiet and hadn't moved. It was Wrong. Wrong in so many ways that made Ratchet want to scan him. Fix whatever was wrong. Go to him. Scream. Something.

The moment stretched uncomfortably as he attempted to find something to say that wasn't either inane or breaking the level of confidentiality that Jazz had requested. When he couldn't come up with anything, he stood there like a useless intern, feeling like slag while Jazz no doubt bled from Primus knew what wounds onto the medbay floor.

The roar of an engine and the sound of transformation outside broke the silence, and Hoist came in at a brisk walk. He nodded to Ratchet but didn't slow, going straight for Jazz. Ratchet unstuck his pedes from the floor and left quietly so they could work in private.

The medbay door locked behind him, and he stood there for a long moment, not sure what he was feeling other than angry. Not at Jazz or Hoist. At himself. At the war. At the Decepticons who'd managed to hurt Jazz in such a way that Jazz hadn't wanted him to see. At Primus. At everything.

* * *

He relieved Hoist 10 hours later in medbay.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"As good as can be expected," Hoist replied, squeezing Ratchet's shoulder in reassurance before he left.

The medbay status log did not list any restricted areas in either the main or auxiliary medbays, so Jazz wasn't being held for observation or further work. Ratchet reviewed Hoist's work record for the last shift (it wasn't snooping, he assured himself, merely checking on his staff's workload) and found a long stretch of the shift that was locked under confidentiality codes. Evidently he'd spent quite a long time fixing Jazz, but in the end Jazz had been well enough to be released. A casual check of the officer duty roster showed that Jazz was on a week's medical leave, extendable pending follow-up.

Ratchet spent a lot of that shift not conjuring collections of injuries that would need those sorts of accommodations.

* * *

He debated what the appropriate response was. After all, there was the confidentiality request to accommodate, and even though Jazz was out of the medbay, if he was on leave then it was fairly likely that he was still recovering. If he didn't want Ratchet to know anything about the wounds, then that might extend to seeing the recovery, too. The professional thing to do was to leave it be, as requested, and let Jazz take the lead.

Theirs was not, however, an entirely professional relationship anymore.

The Autobot officer in him knew that Jazz was the toughest thing since ununtrium plating and likely didn't need comfort. The lover in him knew that there were various levels of "need". The CMO in him didn't help at all by itching at not having done the repairs himself.

Eventually, Ratchet split the difference by sending a one-way message to Jazz's comm: "If you need anything, let me know what I can do."

There, he thought. Offer given, and Jazz could ignore it if he preferred.

Jazz didn't ignore it, but his simple reply of, "Thanks. I will, I promise." left so much between the lines that it didn't make Ratchet feel better at all.

When there were no more messages in the next day, Ratchet had a firm talk with himself about how Jazz could run his own life and didn't need Ratchet nannying him. The talk was mildly successful, and he went back to work the next day with a bit more focus.

* * *

It was a few days before Jazz made contact again. Just long enough that Ratchet could really get into the not-nannying thing but not so long that he became honestly concerned. Still, the wave of relief when Jazz showed up at his door that off-shift was so strong he knew that he'd never really stopped worrying.

"Hey," Jazz said, standing in the hall outside Ratchet's quarters.

"Hey." Ratchet stood aside, the invitation implicit, and Jazz came in.

Ratchet had started giving himself another stern talking-to when Jazz quirked a smile, held his arms out to his sides and said, "Go ahead. If you've really gotta."

"Thank Primus," Ratchet said, venting a sigh he didn't even know he'd been holding as he scanned Jazz within an inch of his life.

The results were not terribly surprising. "That's...a lot of new components." In his chest. In his pelvic span, and in other joints. In his face and helm. Everything had been replaced expertly, of course, with Hoist's usual attention to detail, but Ratchet's sensors could tell where the old parts ended and the new ones began.

"Yeah." Jazz was matter-of-fact about it. And he was watching Ratchet carefully, behind that smile (not quite his usual grin, but a good facsimile). "Can't keep me down, though. Take a lickin' and keep on tickin'."

"Right." Ratchet stepped closer, and Jazz met him halfway. Ratchet still paused, hand half-raised. "Can I...?"

"Yeah." Jazz took that hand in his, nuzzled the palm, almost chastely, and then stepped further in, placing Ratchet's hand on his hip. "Yeah, please do. I'll tell ya if anything's changed."

Ratchet choked out a slightly bitter laugh. If anything's changed. Because why should something like brutal torture at the hands of the enemy change anything? Jazz's particular brand of resilience was at once an asset and a sign of how truly and deeply fragged up the war had made all of them. Oh, part of it was Jazz's own personality, spark-deep. Part of it, Ratchet was 90 percent sure, had been trained into him by Primus knew what methods, including the ability to slice and dice his own processing and memories in ways that made Ratchet shudder. And part of it...part of it had been learned on the job. Through incidents like this.

And Ratchet was a lucky, lucky fragger to have gotten him back. The fear that had been lurking in his spark for days leapt at him all at once, and he pulled Jazz in, tucking them together as if the Autobot third in command was made of spun crystal. A shaky vent, and he didn't know what the words would be until they were already said, "If I asked..."

Jazz's smile against his shoulder was fairly humorless. "Wouldn't tell you." He waggled a finger. "Remember, this is how we stay sane. I carry mine and you carry yours. And believe me, Ratch, I got this. I'll take care of it."

"I want you to take care of _you_," Ratchet growled.

Jazz chuckled, and it was the first bit of humor he'd shown that Ratchet believed was genuine. He stretched up, wrapping his arms around Ratchet's neck. "I got you for that."

Jazz fit in all the usual places as he snuggled in. Ratchet tucked his head down, smelling the repair-bay smell of fresh grease and new metal but under that the particular constellation of sensory impressions that were Jazz: the scent of Wheeljack's special super-low-friction spec ops grade of joint lubricant, the muted purr of a high-performance engine, the subtle whirr and thump of his fuel pump and the smooth fast-twitch edge to even the slightest motion.

"Such a bad idea," Ratchet muttered against an audial horn. "Getting involved with you was such a bad idea."

"Mmm," Jazz murmured contented agreement. Then, a moment later. "I'm sorry, by the way. For the confidentiality thing. It was just...bad. And I wasn't really myself. And I didn't...didn't want you to have to see that."

"I understand. Honest. And it was your call, besides. But I hope you know that I could have handled it," Ratchet said. "I've worked through a lot of horrific slag. And I would have patched you up, same as every other time I've put your aft back together."

"I know." Jazz turned his helm, close enough that Ratchet could see his optics through the visor. "I know you _could_. I just didn't want you to have to." He raised a hand, fingers skating down Ratchet's cheek. "Didn't want to see you hurt, too."

Ratchet wasn't sure if seeing the damage would actually have been worse than the days of lurid images his processor had come up with, but he let it go. It _had_ been Jazz's decision, and it didn't matter, now. Having Jazz whole and here was what mattered.

"Want to stay here tonight?" Ratchet asked.

"Yeah. Not up for anything fun, but it'd be nice to not sleep alone." Jazz pulled back, slowly.

"I can handle that."

They settled in, Ratchet propped up so he could read a datapad, Jazz in his usual place on the outside edge of the berth, arm around Ratchet's waist.

Jazz wriggled until the cushions were in a satisfactory condition and then relaxed with a vented sigh. He caught Ratchet looking down at him rather than at his datapad. "What?"

Ratchet's vocalizer had a brief traffic jam. There was a lot that could be said. Evidently a lot that he _wanted_ to say. He settled on, "I know you can handle it. But if you need anything..." He cupped a gentle hand over the newly-healed plating on the back of Jazz's head. "...just let me know, okay?"

Jazz turned his head to press his cheek against Ratchet's hand, then settled down to smile against Ratchet's hip, his plating relaxing further. "I will. Promise."


End file.
